Raw
by madame.alexandra
Summary: When old wounds are re-opened, the the pain can be just as raw as the first time around; sometimes the dulled memory that comes with head injuries can be a blessing for those who need to heal again. A sort of follow-up to my triology that theorized what could have happened in Paris (The Truth About Love Trilogy). Set in Hiatus Part 2. Dark themes, but a good ending. Jibbs.


_**A/N: this is a follow up to a 3 part series i did called "the truth about love" , which addressed the reason behind the jenny/gibbs break-up in Paris being emotional fall-out after an abortion. this piece follows up to that; i.e., it explores what jenny would have struggled with after finding out about shannon & kelly. set during Hiatus, part 2 (dialogue taken from episode). **_

* * *

_"It takes your breath  
'cause it leaves a scar  
but those untouched  
never get  
never get very far."_

_[The Truth About Love; P!nk]_

* * *

_In my head I see your baby blues  
I hear your voice and I, I break in two_

_[Beam Me Up; P!nk]_

* * *

_May. Washington, D.C. 2007._

The silence around her was deafening.

She had been at the hospital so long, waiting, pacing, staring; listening to the methodical beep of machines, the bustle of nurses, and the muted pages for doctors, that she thought retreating to her familiar posh office in the Navy Yard would ease her anxious mind and her aching heart, but the utter lack of sound only made her wish for a noise to distract her.

She had been on her feet—running, worrying, micromanaging—since she had received the ill-fated call at the White House dinner that he had been badly injured; she hadn't slept, she had barely eaten—coffee was sustaining her, but that made her feel tense, and a little shaken, and twice as likely to snap.

She had finally excused herself—forced herself out of the claustrophobic hospital—because she couldn't bear to see him suffering, even silently, even unconsciously, and the need to actively do _something_ was driving her mad. She had retreated to her office, and it seemed mere moments later that Ducky had called to report—that he didn't remember _anything_.

Gibbs didn't—he was lucid, he was awake, but he was missing a crucial fifteen years, and when she had that laid on her already burdened shoulders, she didn't think the course of events could possibly get worse—until she sat down to scour documents and files, searching for people and places to jog his memory and she stumbled onto—_this_.

She felt like she couldn't breathe—it wasn't a moment of lost breath, or a shortness of air, but a debilitating, locked feeling in her chest. Her lungs throbbed and her throat burned—and her eyes watered; she knew, for a moment, what it must feel like to suffocate, because she couldn't bring herself to take a deep breath.

She hadn't felt this way—since Paris, in ninety-nine.

Her lashes shuddered and she finally blinked, batting back tears. She sucked in sharply, _finally,_ and her head spun—she stared blurrily at the computer screen before her, at the file pulled up in front of her, and she tried—she used all of her strength—to quell the nausea in the pit of her stomach and keep herself from vomiting.

She was given a reason to compose herself when her door opened. Ducky came in slowly, just back from the hospital—he looked exhausted and a little defeated, and she couldn't stand the silence or her thoughts any longer, so she spoke right away—she jumped in—

"Did you know when Jethro was married he had a daughter?" she asked.

The calm in her voice surprised her—she sounded mild, level, almost normal, and she'd never though she'd manage to control herself that well. But somehow—she did, and Ducky looked at her, his eyes moving in confusion, his hand still on her door.

"No, that's not possible," he scoffed gently, and shut her door firmly. He looked down at his hands. "I know all three of Jethro's ex-wives. They had no children."

He sounded so sure, so confident—and she lifted her chin and met his eyes solemnly; she knew how felt-she had been that confident once, too.

"With his first wife Shannon," she said, almost aggressively, "he did."

Saying out loud was almost too much, and to keep things professional, to keep it superficial, she picked up her remote and displayed everything she had just discovered, everything that had just shattered something she thought had healed a long time ago, up on the flat screen on her wall.

She saw Ducky turn and look, his eyes fixing intently on the two faded military I.D.s on the screen—the woman with the red hair, and the sweetly smiling child whose nose looked just like Gibbs'.

"They married in eighty-two," Jenny said, "and had a daughter, Kelly, who was born in eighty-four."

She swept her glasses off her face, still trying to control that caffeine, stress induced shake in her hands, and watched Ducky pull out a chair and sit down heavily—almost as if he'd collapsed—and she felt comforted knowing that at least he, too, had been in the dark about this. It wasn't just her, then—even if she were the one who would feel the sting most acutely.

"I can't believe it," Ducky sighed, his hands braced on the chair. His eyes were still focused on the screen.

"There's more," Jenny began. "They were—murdered when Jethro was fighting in desert storm." She saw the look that came over Ducky's face, but she couldn't give herself the luxury of waiting a moment—she went on: "Shannon witnessed the shooting of a Marine in Oceanside. She identified the killer as Pedro Hernandez—a Mexican drug dealer working Camp Pendleton." The monologue was the only thing keeping her steady; if she learned the story, she could remove herself from it, make it a case, detach herself—she was trying so hard to detach herself from Gibbs— "An NIS agent was assigned to protect her. A sniper shot him in the head while he was driving their van."

She got up and walked slowly around her desk, concentrating on a steady step, and not letting the thin stiletto on her heels fail her. She gripped the remote tightly, staring at the woman and the little girl on the screen.

"He died instantly. Shannon and Jethro's eight-year-old daughter, Kelly, were killed in the crash."

She sat down next to Ducky, defeated—just as heavyhearted as he was. She couldn't rip her eyes away from the two faded pictures. She held her shoulders tensely, her muscles tight and painful.

Ducky tried to catch her eye, his lips moving silently for a moment.

"That is so—awful," he breathed painfully, his shoulders sinking.

Jenny's nails dug into her palm as she gripped the remote—she looked away from Ducky; she couldn't stand to see the pain on his face. He—of all people—should understand; he had been there in Paris—

She turned her head, eyes meeting the vacant, computerized image of the little girl.

"Kelly looked a lot like Jethro, didn't she?" she asked abstractly.

"Yes, a bit," murmured Ducky, still struggling with the information. "She's a beautiful child," he mourned.

"Very," Jenny whispered—her voice was hoarse. She stared at the woman—the ghost whom she now understood had always haunted her affair with Jethro, and who had been their for his failed marriages—and she felt draw into the cloudy blue eyes of the image. "So was Shannon," she reflected.

She wondered—_were we all redheads because of you, Shannon_?

Jenny turned, and got up, her fingers brushing at her own hair tensely.

"Jethro always did like redheads," she said—and she tried to sound wry, flippant, reflective—but it was that comment that jolted Ducky into acute awareness, and he turned, his eyes following her as she moved back to her desk.

He swiveled in his chair; his hands folded tightly—white at the knuckles, and watched her as she sat back down. Her shoulders shook and she leaned forward, lowering her head for a moment. She touched her jaw gently, and shielded her eyes with her hand, and Ducky leaned forward on his knees.

"Jennifer," he said quietly—he remembered the colder months in Paris, after Marseille, after Serbia, the weeks when her thigh injury and something more emotionally devastating had haunted her—and he tried to meet her eyes.

She looked up. She shook her head slightly.

Ducky understood—she asked him, so quietly, not to go any further, because she couldn't handle it right now; she had to think of something else.

"Was Hernandez ever caught?" Ducky asked practically—but his voice was soft, and his gentle eyes were still boring into hers.

"No," she said hoarsely, and then cleared her throat, and spoke more harshly than necessary: "He fled to Mexico. NIS tried to extradite, but the Mexican authorities always claimed they couldn't find him."

She was irritated, angry suddenly—it wasn't right; she knew damn well it was bullshit for the Federales to claim ignorance, and that Gibbs couldn't have his closure—

"It's in our cold case files," she said tightly.

Ducky grunted.

"You can close it," he said roughly, standing up.

"What do you know?" Jenny asked tiredly.

"Jethro would have pursued the killer of his wife and child to hell and back," Ducky retorted tensely. "_Jethro_ got his revenge," he asserted.

The moment Jenny said it—she knew in the pit of her stomach it was true; she knew the lust for revenge, and the desire to avenge a murdered family member, and that fire was not present in Gibbs—he was all grief, all regret, all anger; Ducky was right. He must have gotten his revenge, and all he had left was the inability to cope—and lost second chances to pile on.

Jenny turned her head away, and ignored Ducky's gaze. She narrowed her eyes and focused on the books on her shelves—she had an agency to run, she had a terrorist attack to stop; she did not have the luxury of dwelling on her personal demons—

"Jenny," Ducky said softly, breaking into her reverie.

She turned and met his eyes hollowly.

"There is always tea in autopsy," he soothed warmly.

She understood the offer.

* * *

She tried to go home, to just go _home_ and grab an hour of sleep—to detox, to wipe her mind—but she couldn't, and on some level, she and Ducky both knew she couldn't, and that she would end up in autopsy—even though she hated it so.

The doors swung open gracefully, and she stood poised in the middle of them. She found him comfortably settled in the cushioned chair at his desk, a teakettle already simmering on a hot plate.

She looked around the cold, clean room and bit the inside of her lip, shivering. Her fingers curled slightly. A sad smirk touched the corners of her lips.

"I don't think he ever forgave me," she said, and the pause that she affected before she continued carried meaningful weight, "for failing my autopsy exam," she finished softly.

Ducky smiled.

"After all these years, after all you've been through and witnessed as an agent—why does this place still make you so squeamish?"

She lifted her shoulders and stepped forward, allowing the doors to close behind her.

"I still hate death," she said quietly. "The violence—you don't have time to dwell, in the field. Here—it's open, it's cold, a gaping chest cavity in front of you," she murmured—and then smiled a little wryly, one of her heels tapping the floor. "Shrinking my head already, Ducky," she mused, and gave him a sly wink.

He gestured at the chair next to him—upon which he had gallantly placed a makeshift cushion.

"Have a seat," he coaxed kindly.

She obliged, and sat stiffly, leaning back and lacing her hands together in her lap. She smiled—tightly, uncomfortably—but then the smile quickly faded, because she simply didn't have the strength to keep it there, and there was no reason to save face in front of Ducky. She leaned forward abruptly and put her arms on his desk, bowing her head.

"Is the tea ready?" she asked heavily.

"Yes," Ducky said warmly, and seemed to produce two mugs out of nowhere. He lifted the teakettle easily and chuckled. "It finished its steep just as I heard you on the elevator."

"Ah, how did you time it so perfectly, Doctor?" she asked, affecting a prim tone and reaching out desperately for the piping hot mug.

"I did think this would be bothering you," he answered wisely. "Sugar?" he offered.

"I don't sweeten it anymore," she revealed, and pulled her mug close, lowering her nose and lips into the steam and breathing in shakily. She closed her eyes, and let the hear curl her eyelashes and the wispy, thin hairs around her face.

Ducky quietly went about adding one cube of sugar and a bit of honey to his own tea, blowing gently and replacing the teakettle delicately. He left the rest of the dependable Early Grey to simmer calmly, and fixed his eyes on her. He watched her blow lightly into the contents of her cup, her fingers hugging the mug so tightly her knuckles were white—and he felt for her, and he wondered what was going on in her fragile heart.

She blinked several times, and then she lifted her head and breathed out slowly, her lips parted slightly.

"It must have destroyed him," she said shakily. "Oh, Ducky, it must have taken everything out of him—losing that little girl," she broke off, shaking her head slightly.

"I cannot begin to imagine," Ducky agreed.

Her fingers fanned over her eyes, hiding the green orbs from him. She shoved her thumb into her cheek.

"And I—and what I did in Paris," she stumbled over her words; choked. "I'm not arrogant enough to think it was the same—nothing could compare to—to that kind of pain but I—he has to _hate_ me more than I ever thought he—could."

She looked at Ducky with vulnerable eyes, earnestly seeking—did she want him to confirm her fears, that Jethro had spent all these years hating her, resenting her? Or did she want him to soothe her—even though she was scared she knew the truth, and that no matter what Ducky said, Gibbs was never going to get over it?

Ducky reached out, and his fingers brushed hers.

"Jennifer," he said quietly. "I do not know a world in which Jethro could ever hate you."

She shook her head, drawing back from him. She lifted her mug to her lips shakily and burnt her mouth with the hot liquid—but she kept drinking, scalding her tongue and her throat mercilessly, numbing herself. She shook her head again, the brim of the mug near her lips when she spoke.

"You don't understand," she said hoarsely. "You—you were there, but you weren't really _there_," she tried to explain, her voice cracking. She closed her eyes. "He always had this—critical, longing look in his eyes. I can't explain it; he was so tense after it happened, it was like I had to un—unlock him when I touched—" she broke off, moving her lips. "You don't want to hear this."

"You can't keep this bottled up," Ducky reprimanded a little testily—because he remembered how much it had come between she and Gibbs in Paris, and how it had ended in the dissolution of the affair—and Ducky had always thought she could have saved Jethro, if they had only been more vigilant in Marseille.

She buried her face in the mug.

"I was over it, Ducky!" she burst out, her words muffled. She looked up, licking her lips, and put the mug down—tea sloshed over the edge. "I was—the wound was healed—I was _over_ it," she said desperately. Her voice cracked and she leaned back, folding her arms across herself. "And then—and then I find out about his little girl—"

She shook her head, lowering her chin. Her eyes focused on her lap and her shoulders shook.

Ducky sipped his tea quietly.

"Did you ever speak to someone?" he asked gently. "Did you ever seek counseling?"

She was still for a moment—and then she nodded.

"I was in—it was before I came back to the Navy Yard," she confessed huskily. "I saw a therapist in Rota, and I spoke with another in San Diego—I did the right thing. I worked through it. I came to terms," she bit her lip, and her lashed fluttered. "I talked to—a close friend, a woman who understood," she trailed off.

She lunged forward and reached for her mug again, curling her hands around it.

"It's like—years of, of struggling and nightmares and—hating myself, just resurrected because—because," she choked, and her eyes opened wide. "He lost a child, Ducky!" she explained violently. She bit her lip harshly, and he saw blood pepper the cut her teeth left. "He lost a child."

"My dear," Ducky said, gently reaching for her hand again. She fought him a little, but he won in the end, and held her fingers tightly. "You cannot be blamed for what happened to Kelly Gibbs—"

"I know that," she interrupted tersely.

Ducky nodded, but went on smoothly.

"This tragedy—it doesn't change the circumstances you faced in Europe," he soothed earnestly. "You knew yourself, there were few options—there were _no_ options."

"I _know_ that," she repeated. She pointed to her heart. "I _know_, Ducky. He knew, too—but I—I still think about it, even after the peace I found from—from counselors and—women and I…I've wondered if I was _wrong,"_ she bit her lip, faltering. "I didn't want to have a baby in Paris," she admitted softly. "And I—I could not have had that baby without—ruining the cover of the team but now—I'm older, and I think I missed out, choosing career over children," she seemed to falter.

She tilted her head back and yanked her hand from his, running her hands through her short hair.

"I feel this ache, in my stomach, in my heart," she whispered. Her eyes closed. "It's worse now that I—now that I know he's been carrying this grief for years and I wonder—if he thinks I stole something from him, if I ripped away that baby and he wanted it…Ducky, he never talked to me about it," she said, her eyes flying open and meeting his. "It—it broke his heart, I could see it in his eyes every damn day—oh, it really hurt him. It hurt him so badly, Ducky."

Her voice cracked, and the first few tears slipped down her cheeks. She sucked in her breath, shocked, seemingly, by her own tangible emotions, and swiped at her eyes furiously—but she couldn't stem the flow.

"He never—he never threw it in my face, he never said a _word—_and knowing then—and even now, that I caused all that—I can't breathe," she hissed desperately. She patted her chest, wiping at her eyes again.

Ducky swallowed hard, fervently wishing he could ease her pain—he loved Jenny like he might love any daughter of his own; she was a strong woman, an intelligent, admirable woman, and though she was so different from the budding young agent he'd known in Europe, the same heartache was there.

"You say you came to terms with this—but Jenny, you and Jethro—the two of you never dealt with this together. You never repaired the damage," Ducky said insightfully, "and that is why this is bothering you so much—you have spent years projecting an idea of how you think he feels onto him, when in fact," Ducky paused, and lifted his shoulders, "there is a chance he blamed himself. You _know_ Jethro. You know how he is."

"But it wasn't his fault," she sobbed, tears falling more rabidly down her face. "He didn't do anything wrong—we just fucked up. We fucked up, and I had to do it. I had to have an abortion."

"He knew that," Ducky said solemnly. "Gibbs is not naïve, my dear, he knew very well there was much at risk politically—the integrity of the mission, lives of innocents. It happened very quickly."

"I never let him in," she cried. "I think—I think that's what he—he hated. The way I handled it—it's just how I am; it's just how I function but—he must have thought I didn't care, that it was easy for me, and it wasn't, and I should have told him every day that if things had been different—I wouldn't have—I never wanted children, but that wouldn't have been the worst thing in the world, making it work with Gibbs," she leaned forward, reaching for Ducky's hands of her own accord. "I had to leave him—for my health—but he…I wish I had known about Shannon, and about Kelly…all I ever wanted—want—is Jethro to stop hurting and all I've ever done is add to his misery—"

She swallowed down the rest of her words and turned her head, sucking in her breath again. She wrinkled her nose and closed her eyes—and Ducky squeezed her hands even tighter. This was the motional outpouring he had so worriedly thought she needed in Paris—when she had been so detached, so hollow, and so cold. Despite how hard it was for her, and how hard it was to see her like this, he did think it was good for her.

He gave her a moment to sit and cry, just holding her hand comfortingly. She had confided quite a bit in him, things that were probably hard for her to discuss—the real feelings for Gibbs she kept buried in her heart and, more often than not, openly denied.

"I've never regretted it," she said hoarsely. "I've never thought of it in terms—it just had to be done. It's a fact of my life. But I—I might have…chosen differently."

"Jennifer," Ducky said sadly. "It wouldn't have done you any good to have a baby because your heart was broken for Jethro."

"Oh," she growled helplessly. "I know—goddamnit, I _know_. But I might have hugged him a little bit tighter—instead of—I expected him to comfort me! I was so scared when he hardly even tried because I did think he hated me—and I internalized it—but I really think…he just…it must have really done a number on him. And I was so selfish. I was so concerned about my own pain."

"You have a right, Jenny," Ducky soothed her. "I've no doubt it was very hard for you, even if you _do_ think you made the correct decision."

"I think sometimes we—we're so adamant that we…women…have this right that we forget—not all men want to hurt us—well, I never…I only remember thinking he would resent me, and then he wouldn't be with me like I wanted him to be, and I was very caught up in him not lov—liking me. I didn't stop to consider that he might have struggled, too."

Ducky nodded. He nudged her tea towards her, urging her to take a break from her monologue and drink some more—and she did, taking deep breaths, letting her tears slow, and softening her breathing.

She fluttered her lashes.

"I have so much more perspective now," she said quietly. She laughed dryly. "When I read that file—you know, for a split second, I was angry? I thought—_how dare you keep this from me." _She shook her head slowly. "But I wasn't even going to tell him I was at that clinic. And he—Ducky, he came anyway. He sat on a bench with me—for hours. And I just cried. He took care of me. God—knowing that he has this…murdered daughter in his past, and knowing that he…he never even said a word—the only thing he ever said is that he wished I'd trusted him."

Jenny licked her lips. She sighed heavily, and tilted her head back, looking at the ceiling.

"There were so many more dimensions to him than I ever understood, and I just walked away. I know he…I know he blamed me, but he couldn't help it, and I don't think I realized how hard he was—how hard he tried—" she caught her self before she cried again, and swallowed hard. "He must feel so alone right now."

Surrounded by doctors at that hospital—coping again with the fresh loss of his wife and child, while trying to understand that it was fifteen years later, and he was an entirely different man. Jenny bit her lip harshly, worrying the spot where she'd drawn blood earlier. She wanted—

"I want to see him," she admitted. She lowered her head. "I don't think I can do it."

Ducky leaned back.

"There is still a job to be done," he said delicately. "Amnesiacs, Jennifer, they remember important things based on important connections. You may—help him."

Her eyes flickered with startled realization.

"He won't remember," she murmured hoarsely. "He won't remember—he won't hate me, he won't blame me. I just—won't be there."

Ducky nodded slowly, and she crinkled her forehead as if she had a headache.

"Is it ethical for me to—go see him? Is it selfish?" she asked. "If I trigger his memory—"

"It will happen," Ducky said calmly. "I would think it better that it happen in a safe setting, rather than—in the bullpen," he suggested. "While he is healing, you are capable of helping him," Ducky noted. "You know him so well."

She moved her chair forward, setting her tea down. She still chewed on her lip, and her eyes filled up again.

"May I ask," Ducky began, "May I ask how he handled your-reunion, when you were appointed director?"

"With grace," Jenny answered softly. "Like a gentleman-he tried to pick back up he even...he even," she suddenly realized-he had looked at her like he used to; before Paris.

And she remembered her letter to him-and somewhere it had said-someday you'll stop looking at me like I broke something inside you-and then she wondered...had he, in those six years apart, healed?

She swallowed hard; she pushed the thoughts away; she didn't have time. Aloud, she said:

"I have an agency to run. I have so much on my shoulders—when I heard that he was hurt," she shook her head, her fingers brushing her chest. "He's—the love of my life, Ducky. He always will be. That—thing in Paris may have ruined our chances…" she licked her lips. "It's hard for me to say this out loud," she whispered. "I would die for him."

"My dear," Ducky murmured. He leaned closer and put his arms about her shoulders in a grandfatherly hug, letting her rest her chin on his shoulder. He rubbed her back gently, in a very kind, soothing manner.

She held on to him a little tighter.

He had been an outsider in Paris—and he himself had been angry to see the way Gibbs let Jenny take care of herself, after it all had happened. He had been so gruff, so normal—and Ducky had been infuriated on Jenny's behalf. Now perhaps—he thought Jenny thought too little of Gibbs—hearing her talk, perhaps she really hadn't let him even try, and perhaps he hadn't really known how.

* * *

She gave it some time—she gave herself some time, to take a hot shower, to sleep just a little, after her moment with Ducky, before she gathered her bearings and her professional things and she went to the hospital to face him.

It had been less than a day since he had woken up so troubled—and she was arriving just after an annoying conversation with his old boss—and he was asleep when she arrived. He was asleep, and for a moment she just looked at him—at his cropped, thin hair.

He had cut it, and sleeping there among the machines and the hospital bedding, he looked like a Marine—and he looked injured; she had never seen him look so injured. She steeled herself—swallowed hard—and stepped closer, slipping her hand into his. The white plastic sensor on his middle finger knocked against her knuckles, but she ignored it and applied a gentle pressure to his hand.

She expected him to startle awake—but he didn't; his eyes opened slowly, and he moved his head to the side. He looked at her—he stared at her for the longest moment, and she thought he must be remembering it all—and then his eyebrows went up almost in disbelief and he said—

"Shannon?"

She almost felt relieved—she couldn't even be hurt that he had mistaken her; she was just glad she hadn't triggered anything that would cause him more pain. She moved her head to the side, grasping his hand a little tighter.

"No, Jethro," she said softly. "It's me. Jenny," she said her name almost uncertainly—she had a feeling it would mean nothing to him.

He didn't yank his hand away, but he did look at her with a defeated, disappointed look. His eyes flicked over her face, narrowed—and then he compressed his lips tightly and gave her a look that told her—he didn't know her. He couldn't remember.

She moved her head.

"You still don't remember me?" she asked quietly.

He took a deep breath, tilting his head—and suddenly he looked down, directly away from her, refusing her gaze for a moment, almost as if he were stunned or—shy. He looked back up.

"Maybe," he said hoarsely.

"I'm Jenny," she said. She squeezed his hand again. "We were partners."

He grit his teeth for a moment.

"After Shannon died," he said, with a certainty, and a stress on the word _after_, that made her think he must have—remembered something, and he was hoping to high heaven that he hadn't cheated on his beloved dead wife.

"Yes," she confirmed.

He looked confused, and lifted his head.

"Did I marry again?"

Out of nervousness, she laughed.

"Three times," she told him.

It was so surreal—so odd and unbelievable, to be telling him about the life they had so often joked about—his serial marriages. She saw them so differently now than she had back then.

He laughed.

"No way," he growled—and she noticed a pained look in his eyes, and she recognized guilt. It took some of her breath—she could tell the idea that he'd apparently moved on so quickly confused him—upset him, and she wanted to tell him that she didn't think he'd loved those substitute wives, but she knew he was too honorable a man to be comforted by that, either.

So she said:

"Afraid so."

He glared up at her uncertainly.

"Ah, you're an ex-wife," he guessed knowingly.

Her breath caught in her throat. He must have—felt something, then, to identify her like that. She couldn't fathom the idea of being married to him, but she wished for a moment she could say something that let him know she was there for him—but she couldn't, and her answer reminded her of what she'd lost.

"I'm the Director of NCIS."

He didn't look away from her.

"For a moment I thought you were somebody else," he said wistfully.

She would have given anything to know what he had remembered, and she pulled his hand a little closer to her. She leaned forward, meeting his eyes earnestly—more honestly than she had in a long time.

"What do I make you think of, Jethro?" she asked softly.

He tensed—and she sensed he was uncomfortable. He sat up, pulling his hand out of hers, moving his blankets around, and he cleared his throat gruffly—very gruffly; she recognized the way he used to do it when he wanted the subject changed. She said nothing else, and then he flexed his muscles and looked at her patiently—waiting.

He waited to be prodded like he had been by everyone else.

She turned to the files she had brought, and she felt his eyes on her. She turned and held out the picture of Pin Pin Pula—the bastard they were all using everything in them to catch—and she hid herself in her Director's shell. She composed herself—and let him good a good look.

"Do you recognize this man?"

He sat up straighter, and took the photo—and then he was nodding rapidly; aggressively. She stepped closer—he looked so young, so impossibly young, and so old at the same time—there were fifteen years of hardened acceptance and grief gone, and instead he was a lost young man again, struggling to come to terms with his family's death, and somehow that made him look so much more vulnerable than she'd ever thought he could be.

He gripped the photo tightly.

"It's like a name on the tip of my tongue," he said hoarsely, "and I can't remember," his voice went up narrowly.

She leaned over him.

"Calm down. It will come to you," she soothed.

She remembered all the times he had been there for her nightmares.

"It's important? Isn't it?" he asked curtly.

"Yes," she agreed. "Very."

"It's life or death, right?" he demanded.

"Don't get upset, Jethro," she pleaded—already regretting that she'd volunteered to do this; she should have let Ducky, or Tony—but she just had to see him, to make sure he was okay. "You won't remember."

"Give me a name," he spoke over her.

"Pin Pin Pula," she supplied slowly.

His face darkened.

"That's—not his name," he said. "That _can't_ be his name."

"Are you sure?" Jenny asked.

"No, I'm not sure—I don't remember, how can I be sure?" he shouted, ripping the photo up—alarms started to go off, and wires flew through the air as he aggressively moved. He groaned—in pain—and the medical team came rushing in, barking questions.

"It's my fault," Jenny said, pointing to herself—feeling her statement acutely, in the pit of her stomach, in her heart.

"It's not her fault," Gibbs growled. "It's my fault," he said loudly, wrestling away from a nurse as she tried to pin him back.

Jenny leaned forward when he said it, shaking her head. _It wasn't your fault, Jethro._ One of the doctors said his name—and he shook his head.

"I'm not Agent Gibbs, I don't know Agent Gibbs, I don't _want_ to know Agent Gibbs," he snarled, still trying to fight them off.

"Shhh," Jenny soothed.

He lunged forward and grabbed her lapels, clutching her tightly.

"I want my family," he said, and she met his eyes, and grabbed his hand, scared for a split second he was talking to her—accusing her—but then he went on: "I want Shannon. I want—ah—I want—Kelly," he growled, trying to resist the pull of the morphine they were giving him.

His hand slipped and she caught it, holding it tightly.

"I miss 'em," he gasped, turning away, but holding her hand tighter than she could bear. "I miss 'em so much."

She didn't let go of his hand until the drugs pulled him under—and even then, she sat next to him until his heart had stopped pounding and his face had relaxed into the deepest sleep; she sat with him, because six years ago, outside of a clinic in Paris, he had sat with her until she couldn't cry anymore.

* * *

He had been expected—to take in so much.

It was the most incomprehensible thing in the world to wake up to the memory that his whole world was gone, but to be told—that this was fifteen years later, that he had suffered this before—and he was going to suffer it again?

He spent hours and hours trying to remember—trying to force the fifteen years to come back, so maybe the fresh, intolerable pain would be gone—so he could see if he had found away to cope. And—he was faced with only bad news; terrorist attacks, never-ending wars and still, ever present, the reminder that he would never see Shannon or Kelly again.

And then—there was Jenny—the Director of NCIS, she said. His partner—a partner he must have been too close to, if the way he remembered her was any indication. She had touched his hand—spoken to him, and he'd remembered somewhere hot, and stuffy, and foreign—traffic sounds and a strange language—and then he'd been unable to look at her, and he hadn't expected such a juvenile, physical reaction.

She had asked—what she made him think of, and he couldn't put it into words. He was struggling with the trauma of Shannon and Kelly—he couldn't being to describe another woman, another feeling, even though what her touch on his hand and jolted him with had confused him, muddled him—because he had never thought he'd feel an inkling like that after Shannon, and then here it was, and Jenny was living, and silently begging him to remember her.

He turned on his side in the hospital bed, still teetering on the edge of a million memories, still feeling as if it were all on the tip of his tongue—and then he closed his eyes, and it was like he was—sitting on a park bench in Paris, and then—reading a letter in bed—

His eyes flew open. He took a deep breath. His chest ached, and his hands itched—it was another thing he couldn't remember, another part of his life he had lost—but he rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, and tried to sleep again—

It was a light sleep; his mind was overwhelmed with bloody streets in Prague, and hard benches in Paris—and the thought he couldn't shake—that something bad had happened to that Jenny in these cities—

* * *

Ziva informed only the Director of her intention to go force Gibbs out of his amnesia—and she did so because she had acutely figured out, in the past few days, just what some of their candid conversations in the heart of Eastern Europe had meant.

Ziva was—as ostracized from the team as Jenny, but for vastly different reasons; she was different—they thought she was too cold, not worried enough about Gibbs; they didn't understand that she was so afraid to lose Gibbs that she couldn't express anything at all—he was a father to her, a teacher, a rock, and he meant so much to her—

-and so she flocked to Jenny, because since it had all come out to the team—Ziva had already known—about Shannon and Kelly, and Jenny had become so reclusive, and had holed herself up with Ducky when she didn't know Ziva was still at NCIS, Ziva understood something vital.

She sought Jenny's blessing for what she had to do, and Jenny gave it.

The two women stood facing each other.

Ziva leaned forward on the desk, her palms flat.

"His memory will come back in large, important chunks," she said quietly. "I have seen this before. He may—never regain some things."

Jenny said nothing.

"I am sorry, Jenny," Ziva said huskily. She moved her head slowly. "When you told me—in Cairo. When you told me that you had one, as well—" she paused. "I never thought it was Gibbs'."

Jenny bit her lip heavily, and turned away.

"Take care of him, Ziva."

* * *

She had let him yell everything he needed to yell in MTAC—she had not intervened when he lost his cool and began swearing at the highest political leaders in the land—because she thought he earned it; he needed it.

His government had failed his brothers in arms, and on top of that, he was still in the throes of a fifteen-year-old tragedy that left him thinking his agency failed his family—and he had nothing right now, nothing but rage, and so she had let him _yell_.

Because in Paris, he had let her cry.

He sat in her office now, silent as the grave—and the silence was stifling again, like it had been when she first discovered his wife and daughter.

She was drinking; he hadn't touched his.

She had been watching him stare at his glass for what seemed like hours—until he finally broke the silence:

"I was wrong," he said.

She moved her head tensely.

"You weren't wrong."

He turned to her.

"I was angry at Mike," he said bluntly. "I never understood how he could quit," he growled, standing up—and suddenly she felt small, and she remembered herself screaming—_I deserve the Jethro who wasn't touched by it!. _"Until now," he said, and pushed the glass of untouched whiskey towards her with finality.

She grit her teeth—she had always deserved the Jethro who was untouched by tragedy, a whole man, a happy man; it was what every woman who wanted a man deserved—but that _isn't_ the one she fell in love with, and the reality she faced now—

She sat forward.

"Jethro—" she began.

He shook his head.

"I quit," he said.

He turned, but then he turned right back around, and he leaned forward, and squinted.

"What city were we in?" he asked huskily. "When you—when we," he fumbled for words. "What city?"

Her lungs burned painfully.

"Paris," she managed.

She stood up, and he came around the desk. He leaned against the edge, looking at her intently, his blue eyes narrow and hard—searching. She looked away, and he reached for her shoulder, but his hand landed on her throat.

"What happened?" he asked.

She shook her head to indicate she wouldn't tell him.

He pressed his palm into her cheek.

"I can't remember," he said hoarsely. "I remember—you crying," he said. He shook his head roughly, and then swallowed hard. "Whatever it was, Jen," he muttered—and she didn't think he realized he'd remembered her nickname. "Think I…forgave you for it. A long time ago."

He stepped away from her—almost before she realized what he'd said, and she took his face in her hands and leaned forward, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth.

"Jethro," she said thickly. "It's okay," she soothed. "I'm sorry," she said.

She hugged him—because she never had tried to just hug him after it all went wrong in Paris.

He returned the hug—and unexpectedly, whether he knew it or not, he said what he'd always said back then—

"Easy, Jen."

* * *

In the elevator, he and Ducky stared at each other—in silence.

Ducky cleared his throat, his worried eyes on Gibbs heavily.

Gibbs tilted is head.

"Duck," he said heavily. He knew—instinctively—that Ducky would know. "Somethin' bad happen? In Paris," he said. "Between me and—Jenny?"

Ducky thought carefully.

There were so many complexities involved in the truth about what had happened between them—but at the root of it all was an unfortunate twist of fate, and the wisdom of age had taught the good doctor that—even if the love survived, the relationships could be left raw, and scarred, and breathless.

"It was a very long time ago, Jethro," he placated neutrally.

Gibbs swallowed.

"Was it my fault?" he asked.

He had the sense that he had lost—that he had been blaming himself, and hurting, for all too many years—and all because he didn't know how to recover from the suffering life faced him with. He did think—that he had forgiven her, something about a memory of a letter told him that—and he was remembering an attic in Marseille—pleasantly—but he needed to know—

Ducky shook his head, smiling kindly.

"No, Jethro," he said firmly. "It was no one's fault."

Gibbs set his jaw stiffly, and turned his head, his eyes on the elevator buttons. In a blurry rush, he remembered the words she'd written on the note she left—even if he couldn't remember what they had lost—and he realized—whatever it was that had happened, that he thought he could have changed back then, he wouldn't have been ready for it if it had been different—and this faultless thing was for the best, and he _had,_ at some point, _forgiven_ her, and stopped looking at her like she had broken something inside him-and it had been the moment he set his eyes on hers in that dark hospital room, the moment he remembered-Marseille, because even if he couldn't grasp what it was that had fractured them, he somehow understood it all, and he felt better in the dark-thinking only of Marseille.

* * *

_"There's a whole 'nother conversation going on_  
_In a parallel universe._  
_Where nothing breaks and nothing hurts._  
_There's a waltz playin' frozen in time_  
_Blades of grass on tiny bare feet_  
_I look at you and you're lookin' at me."_

_[Beam Me Up; P!nk]_

* * *

**_i strongly recommend you read at least the last in this series, which was called "Those Untouched". i hope here-i've captured the devastation she might have felt, regardless of whether she knew she made the right choice, once finding out what Gibbs had lost and how he might have viewed it differently._**

**_feedback appreciated!  
-alexandra_**

**_story #159_**


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